A tale of mirth and woe.
A quick duck into Waitrose simply to pick up a pint of milk ended up in what could be described as a small-to-medium shop as I was lured by the frantic pricing down of crates of Christmas biscuits in the seasonal aisle.
I hefted my booty to a vacant till, only to be beaten by a chap and his pre-school daughter.
"Don't forget your toy rabbit, Charlotte," he said ominously as she helped with the packing. Of course, she was so beguiled by a handful of those green Waitrose coins that we will one day be using as currency come the collapse of Western civilisation, she did exactly that.
I chased after them, dear reader. I chased them down with my dodgy ankle, carrying armfuls of discount biscuits, a pint of milk, and a toy rabbit.
"Is this ... argh me foot ... is this your rabbit?"
And for the first time since the great mid-nineties Paedogeddon panic, I received hearty thanks from a dad, and a sheepish "Thank oo" from a small girl.
Smugness, your name is Alistair.
Of course, the yin and yang of the universe has to stay in perfect balance, and it couldn't last for long.
In fact, it lasted as long as I could pay the car park, drive down the exit ramp and drop my parking token as i went to put it into the machine at the barrier.
Naturally, I had drawn up too close to the machine to get the car door open, so I had to climb across to the passenger side, get out, root around under the car until I found the lost token, climb back in through the passenger side, and hoist myself behind the wheel in the most undignified manner possible.
As I climbed back in, I clocked the queue that had built up behind me, and raised the lost coin to the driver of the first car, by way of explanation. A middle aged woman, her mouth was a lipstcked gash in the universe betraying the thoughts of painful death inside her head.
"Dropped it," I mouthed.
"Arsehole," she said.
Which was fair enough.